Forever As One

by Jackie Ivie

  “This is not a good idea.” He looked down at the hand he held. His voice was rough as he stated the obvious.

  “No. Yes.”

  “I was a fool to bring you here. And yet…what else was I to do?”

  “Mister Morgan?”

  “Dane.”

  She ignored his name, and the little smile he gave. It only worked because he was still speaking to her fingers. “We should…go back.”

  “You are safer with me than with any other creature on the planet. I vow it.” He polished off that statement by lifting her hand and placing a kiss right atop the ridges of her knuckles.

  Oh my…heavens! No wonder they’d loved that gesture in the middle ages! The spark that shot from that spot went straight to her center, starting a tremor that was noticeable. Her hand shook within his, and her entire frame wasn’t far behind. She held her breath. He lifted his eyes back to hers.

  “I must leave you now, Frja. I cannot stay near you, and not—! I cannot control—! You do not understand…and I cannot explain. Forgive me.”

  He dropped her hand and was gone, leaving total chill in his wake. In a blink of time. Without making a hint of sound. Not a footstep. Not a door closure. Nothing.

  CHAPTER THREE

  This wasn’t a yacht. It was more a ship. She’d once thought being on a ghost ship would be cool. She’d been a lot younger then. A little less world-weary. Rod had been the neighbor’s kid, not her deceased husband. They’d both shared an interest in the strange and scary. She supposed it started when he’d found a book about the Flying Dutchman and crew that disappeared in 1795. It had been spotted lots of times since, but never verified. Sounded really cool.

  Ghost ships weren’t as fun once she got older and saw some of the horror movies. Then they were just plain spooky. Spooky. With a capital S.

  That description was more than apt. This one probably even echoed.

  Vangie peeked around a corner and got a dose of more corridor, acreage of charcoal-hued carpeting, dark wood paneling, and the same sparkling chrome fixtures. Didn’t matter if she found a staircase and went up or down, either. Everything started looking alike. He had at least three decks. She hadn’t gone down the last set of steps because she was afraid of getting lost. They’d looked different. They weren’t carpeted and the walls below looked like white paint covered them. She probably should have dared it.

  “See, this is the problem with rich people.”

  She said it aloud. It helped curb the sensation that was raising hairs at the back of her neck. Vangie gestured to the hall as she lectured.

  “They can’t take it with them, so they design monstrosities like this to spend their money on. Expensive cars, huge mansions, elaborate estates, yachts the size of cruise ships. And then they have to buy privacy fences. Security forces. Electronic surveillance stuff…”

  If she ever had a fortune at her command – which wasn’t likely given her success rate tonight – she’d find a way to make the money work for her. Better people’s lives. Work on the environment. Make a difference. Something other than waste it on something that sooner or later was going to end up a chunk of rusting iron on the ocean floor, doing more damage than good.

  “I mean…just look at this. The guy has a lot of space. And for what? Parties? Privacy? Status? What a waste.”

  Her voice drifted off. She’d been right. It echoed, and did nothing to temper the shivers.

  She ran a finger along the slick chrome rail next. Not a speck of dust, either. He kept it perfectly maintained. Figures. He probably paid an army of servants to keep it in this condition. They must sleep during the night, unlike their employer. That didn’t automatically mean if she’d gone down that odd staircase, she wouldn’t find a living being or two.

  Maybe.

  Vangie peeked around the next corner, and then looked back the way she’d come. The view was exactly the same. Great. She was lost. Some of the doors had markings on them, but they weren’t numeric, so she hadn’t paid attention. She pulled her cell phone from her purse and turned it on.

  Roaming.

  Fine. Roam away. Just get her a bar or two and she’d be happy. Heck, at this point, she’d settle for access to the GPS. Heck, she might need a GPS just to find the salon he’d left her in. This was ridiculous. And her phone was taking forever.

  No Service.

  “You must be Ms. Harper.”

  Vangie squealed, dropped her purse and phone, and spun. The giant of a man standing behind her wasn’t remotely handsome. But he was real. And human. And he found her antics very funny if the grin on his face was an indication.

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  “Who…are you?”

  “Sven Haardrasson.”

  “Scandinavian?”

  “Swede. How did you know?” he asked.

  “Lucky guess.” Vangie bent in the most ladylike fashion she could manage wearing a tight blue dress suit to retrieve her phone, a stray tube of lip gloss, and her little purse. She addressed her next remarks to the carpet at his feet. He had big feet, too. “Sven. Erick. Dane. Is everybody here from the North?”

  “Mostly. We make good seamen.”

  “Pillaging, plundering, rampaging…kidnapping. The Viking era is over, you know.”

  “You ready yet?”

  “For what?” No images came to her this time. Obviously it was just Dane who could control that part of her mind. That wasn’t comforting, but at least it could be managed.

  “I’ve been sent to find you.”

  Vangie waited to get back upright, and then stood with her back against the corner, reaching for her fullest height. It was easier to talk to him that way, even if she did look to be straining for a few extra centimeters. “Oh. My transport must be ready.”

  “Transport?”

  “Back to shore. Didn’t Mister Morgan tell you?”

  “Dane?”

  “Is there anyone else named Morgan aboard?”

  “No.”

  “Then yes. I’m talking about that Mister Morgan.”

  There were stupid conversations, and then there were ‘going nowhere’ stupid conversations. This was the latter. Vangie waited while he assimilated her statement. Okay. The guy was big. Muscled. Not very handsome, and not very bright. But he knew his way about the ship. And he could probably be manipulated. Vangie glanced up at him and smiled slightly.

  “He didn’t tell you to ready a transport for me?”

  “Follow me.”

  He didn’t wait to see if she’d obey, he simply turned down the corridor she’d been in and expected she’d follow. And she did.

  He led her along what felt like another quarter mile of hallway, up two staircases that didn’t resemble anything she’d traversed earlier – they were wider and even more elegant – and then waited for her to catch up. Damn heels.

  “Can I ask you something?”

  He nodded.

  “What on earth are the markings on all the doors?”

  “Runic symbols.”

  “Runic? As in Viking Runic? And you can actually read them?”

  He sighed, moving a lot of chest. “See that plate on the doorframe beside the handle?”

  She did. It read 212. In normal numeric form.

  “That shows we’re on the second deck. Twelve doors from the stern. Come along now. Dane doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”

  “So?”

  Getting kidnapped, held hostage aboard a ghost ship, and then scared wasn’t doing her sense of protocol and etiquette any good. It did wonders for her impatience and frustration, though.

  “So, hurry.”

  “Or what?”

  “Or, he’ll see me punished.”

  “Right. Like I…believe that.” The words were split with the way she stopped for breath between them, since she had to jog the steps to reach where he stood.

  “Why wouldn’t you?”

  “Because lazy…rich…playboys aren’t…the type to administer punishme
nts. You’d have to…practice discipline first.” And if she wasn’t panting, it would have made more sense.

  “Not him. The Captain. And I like shore leave.”

  Likely story. But what did she know about it? A ship this size probably needed a crew to man it. They might even have a captain that disciplined offenses. Shore leave might be a rare event, because just maybe they stayed out to sea most of the time.

  “Then why are you here now? Seems to me, you’d be on shore partying like the rest of the world. Oh no. No. Please, don’t say it. He wouldn’t.”

  At the thought, the slightest lurch happened, as if engines were starting up, or an anchor had been pulled, or they’d started moving. And if Dane thought he could put out to sea with her, he obviously didn’t know a thing about women, and less about New Englanders. And Sven here wasn’t going to be any help.

  “That’s it. I’m done with nonsense. Just where is Mister Morgan hiding?”

  They reached two enormous wooden doors with matching chrome handles on them. Dead center. She was the seasick type. She didn’t take a honeymoon cruise for that reason. Mongoose, my ass. He was about to meet the mother of angry: a pissed-off New Englander. There was a reason the Revolutionary War started there.

  Sven knocked loudly on one side of the door. Vangie turned the handle on the other one, pushed it open, and stomped in. Or tried to stomp. The carpeting in here was even thicker than that in the halls. Her heels sank into luxury that ruined any aggressive entrance. And the man getting to his feet over by a really ornate fireplace didn’t look like anyone to argue with.

  He’d swapped the shorts for long dark thigh-hugging denims and the loud tropical shirt for a blue t-shirt that molded to a torso Michelangelo couldn’t improve while showing off more toned arms than before. And his hair! Even with it pulled back, his honey-shaded hair was so dark and shiny it looked wet.

  Her heart decided to torment her with another low swoop to the pit of her belly. She’d forgotten his effect on her.

  And his handsomeness.

  Damn it. Damn it. Damn it.

  “Evangeline. You’re back.”

  “Turn…this ship around.” The first word came out exactly as she meant it. The last part of her sentence limped out like wet noodles.

  “Hard to do,” he answered. “Sven?”

  “We aren’t moving. You want to give the signal?”

  “Not yet.”

  “You got this, Boss?”

  Vangie swiveled to face the giant holding the door open. “He’s not going to need your assistance, Sven. Not at the moment. But don’t go hiding, okay? You hear him screaming, you come running. Got it?”

  “Dane?”

  “You heard the lady.”

  Sven saluted her before shutting the door. She distinctly heard the sound of a lock clicking into place. She was getting locked in, too? And they weren’t moving? The strangest vibration was coming through the soles of her feet, defying that. They were moving, or she was losing her mind.

  “Why did he lock it?”

  She sent the words at the closed and locked doors. It was easier to speak if she didn’t look at Dane while she did so.

  “It’s not locked.”

  “Right.”

  “You don’t believe me?”

  “Heck no. I don’t trust you, either.”

  “You don’t trust me?”

  Vangie turned around slowly. It wasn’t an elegant move. Her shoes didn’t slide against the carpet so she had to pivot by lifting them in little steps. It put him back in her direct line of sight, too, and that just rattled words off her tongue.

  “You tricked me onto your yacht, you disappeared and from the looks of things took a swim in the ocean, and now you’re keeping me against my will. What part of that is trustworthy, Mister Morgan?”

  “It wasn’t a trick. And it’s Dane.”

  “Right.”

  “You’re also not being held against your will. You’re free to leave…just as soon as we conclude our business.”

  “Oh. Really.”

  “We should be done by dawn.”

  “Dawn,” she repeated.

  “In about five hours the sun will rise, and it will be a new day. If you wish, you can leave then. You have my word.”

  “Five hours?”

  “A pittance.”

  He waved a hand to demonstrate the loss of a good portion of her sleep time. Vangie’s lips tightened. He might be jaw-dropping handsome, but the longer she was around him, the easier it was to form words and make sense.

  “You’ll have a hard time ordering that if you take another ocean swim, won’t you?” She didn’t know why she still grumbled. He was being fairly amenable. And so far, he hadn’t done anything threatening. Or anything approaching ravishment.

  “I wasn’t in the ocean. The water isn’t cold enough.”

  Her mouth opened and nothing came out. She had to shut it or remain affixed in that position. What he implied wasn’t possible. It just wasn’t.

  “I can’t promise I won’t leave you again, either. I may need to. Do you play chess?”

  “Chess?”

  He moved sideways, revealing a heavy wooden table with what might be a chess board and pieces atop it. Only it looked massive enough to be used as a prop in an Olympian movie. The pieces looked over six inches high each, and carved into some sort of Arabian looking figures. The bases might be black and white but the rest were painted with all sorts of colors, while what was probably real gold trim lined every bit of clothing on the figurines.

  She should have paid attention in her archeology classes. They looked like something from…the Ottoman Empire or Arabian Nights or something. Her feet moved without her instruction and within moments she was at the table, with Dane on her right side. Up close, his chess pieces were even more impressive.

  “Where did you get this?” She was awe-struck. Her voice carried every bit of it.

  “Constantinople.”

  She shook her head. “Don’t you mean Istanbul?”

  “Oh. Yes. My mistake. Istanbul. You wish white or black?”

  He bent forward, extending his arms across the chess board as if to swivel it. That was too much man and too nicely arrayed. Wow. She’d never seen such a physique, and he wielded it so easily, without thought to any consequence! Vangie’s eyes widened and she gasped. This was ridiculous behavior. If he chanced a glance at her, there wouldn’t be much way to hide it. She was staid, proper. Even Rod called her frigid. Nothing about her life triggered massive heat and sensual awareness. Until now.

  “Leave…it.” Her voice was breathless. Panted.

  “Black, then?”

  Vangie slid around the table, gaining space from his proximity. She needed it before looking up at him. She’d been wrong. The sensations he evoked in her weren’t just ridiculous and impossible. They were insane. He had to possess the deepest, bluest eyes on record. Not just vivid blue…but deep. Dark. Mysterious. Little dots hampered her view and they were accompanied by a sway into the table. Vangie gripped the edge with both hands to catch what felt like a swoon.

  “You’re making this very difficult for me, Frja.”

  She thought he said it, but his lips didn’t do more than mold into a perfect kiss shape. He couldn’t possibly mean he was having the same difficulty? Could he?

  “I have given my word.”

  “About…what?” Her voice was a sigh of sound.

  His face showed pain before he lowered his head. Every muscle on him tightened until he resembled one of the chess pieces. And then he straightened, opened his eyes, and looked at her with a completely blank expression.

  “If you take black, I get the opening move.”

  “Opening move?” Why didn’t that make sense?

  “Chess.” He dropped his eyes to the board between them.

  “Oh. Right. You want to play chess.”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t do well with chess. Even if I’m wide awake. And right now, it�
�s sleep-thirty. I mean, you already called it. It’s past two. In the morning.”

  “I’m a night person.”

  “Figures. Well. If you want to play chess, I’m willing, but I’m not going to give you a very good match.”

  “Really? Why?”

  She sighed. Men. Seriously.

  “Aren’t you listening? Chess requires concentration. Oh! And add in that sometimes an opponent takes so long I get bored. That makes my moves sloppy and ill-conceived. It’s not that I can’t play. I just lack the proper patience or something. Chess requires too much mental acuity. It can be worse than a full body workout.”

  “Exactly why I chose it.”

  That one eyebrow quirked up and sent her pulse into overdrive again, and her breathing into nonexistence. Or, maybe it was the lightning quick images that flitted through her mind again, even more visual and graphic than before. Red lace. Satiny sheets. Candlelight. Naked, muscled skin…entwined legs. Her legs. Wrapped about him.

  “Please. Sit.”

  His voice interrupted what was rapidly turning into an erotic fantasy for one. Her legs wobbled and she fell, then did her best to act like she’d meant to sit that hastily. The wingback chair was upholstered in a thick damask fabric and stuffed so full, she bounced. She placed her purse on her lap and tucked her skirt around her thighs with precision while she waited for his next words. It was better than looking across the table.

  “Are you right-handed?”

  “What?”

  She looked up and across the chess board at him. She’d been right. The pieces were about six inches tall. They were spectacularly carved, probably inlaid with real jewels, but they weren’t enough to keep her from looking right at him. And getting sucked right back into the deepest, most hypnotic eyes she’d ever seen.

  “I asked if you’re right handed.”

  “I heard you. I just don’t know why it matters.”

  “Trust me. It matters.”

  “Yes. I’m right handed.”